A Long Time Ago
by Thobbit
Summary: A couple decades from now, Alex Braeden is stuck at home with Dean, his aging, slightly demented adopted grandfather. It's boring as hell...until the Definitely Not Human in a trench coat shows up, and Dean recognizes him, and he has very little idea who Dean is. (Based on the Doctor's first meeting with River Song, and I apologize for my ability to summarize.)


_A/N: Wow, I wrote this a while ago and totally forgot to publish it. Inspired by rewatching Doctor Who episode "SIlence in the Library". River said "He came when I called, like he always does" and my brain naturally just went here. Reviews literally make my day, complementary and constructive criticism alike!_

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A Long Time Ago

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It's weird being in the house all alone. Well, more or less all alone. Just Dean. I wish Dad'd made Lily stay behind instead of me, but she was all, "Alex has tests to study for," and it wasn't like I could really deny it, so here I am, stuck in a creaky old house with a creaky old man. Just wait 'til she gets to high school, the little twerp.

God, I'm going to be stuck behind for the next two and a half years, aren't I. Until I'm old enough to drop out. I can't wait.

Dean coughs, and I jump a bit and look over. But he's just lying there, like he always does. He used to be so much cooler, back when he got up and walked around and told stories about the Good Old Days. Well, mostly, I think, the Bad Old Days, but he never talked about _that_ stuff. The really _interesting_ stuff. Mom and Dad know more than they let on, too, about what he did. Which, as far as I can tell, was a hell of a lot.

Now he mostly just sleeps and mutters to himself. Still about the Old Days, but not really so lucid––like he thinks it's _still_ the early part of the 21st century, or even the late 20th.

"Sammy," he murmurs, and I pull my chair closer to the bed. He's drifting again. Sam's been...well, I don't really know, but I'm pretty sure dead for years. Again: no one tells us kids anything.

"Dean?"

He squints up at me, eyes all fuzzy with cataracts. "You're not Sammy. Damn memory, huh? Sorry, Ben."

That's my dad. Close enough. "It's fine. You want a glass of water or something?"

"Something," he mutters with a snort. "Gimme a whiskey."

Mom said not to give him any more alcohol, "or his liver will start oozing out his ears," but what the hell, if it hasn't by now, I figure it's never going to happen. "Sure. Just a minute."

It's easy to find, especially with all the lights on as I have them. Yeah, it's a waste of power but...it gets sort of creepy with no one home at night but me and Dean. Maybe I shouldn't be scared of anything like that, being raised in a hunting family and all, but all that really means is I _know_ what could be hiding in the dark.

I help him sit up so he can drink the whiskey (yes, Mom, watered down.) He can hold it on his own, at least––he's not _that_ decrepit. Just old. Way older than any other hunter I know. Pushing seventy, maybe. And he's not even related to me, technically. He just showed up on our porch one day, just after Grandma Lisa died, and Dad shouted "I knew it!" and hugged him, and we've been looking after him ever since.

Like I said, it used to be more interesting.

Dean grimaces, coughs, and shoves the whiskey back at me. "That's crap," he informs me. "Too weak. Is your mom on another one of her health kicks?"

"Yeah," I say, though I'm not sure whether he's thinking of my mom or Grandma Lisa, and we share a sort-of-smile of mutual resignation. But his turns into another grimace, and I'm pretty sure this one's of pain. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He waves me back. "You know what they say. There are old hunters and there are dead hunters and..." he trails off. "Actually, no one says anything like that."

"I don't think so, no." But I back off.

"Well they should." He sort of slumps his head down to the pillow and sighs, closing his eyes again. I start to think he's going back to sleep, but then he croaks again. "Cas."

"Huh?" I may have started falling asleep, too. It's snowing outside––welcome to September in post-Climate Change Minnesota, everyone, and thanks, preceding generations––but in here it's all warm. I've got the heater turned up as high as it goes, practically.

But Dean's not talking to me, or anyone that I can see. "Dammit, Cas, get your feathery ass down here! I need your help on this one! I need y–" He dissolves into a fit of coughing and I jump up to help him sit. My lunge turns quickly into a crouch and knife-drawing when another man suddenly appears in the room. He's a bit taller than average, with dark hair and blue eyes and a weird combination of a suit and trench coat. He looks around, curious but dead serious, and there's a sort of Presence to him that, in addition to the whole randomly-appearing thing, suggests Definitely Not Human.

"Hello," he says, and he isn't even looking at me, just at Dean. I wonder whether I should stab him while I have the chance. His voice sounds like he just swallowed a bucket of gravel.

The old hunter pushes himself up somehow, on one spindly elbow. The other hand is clutching at his chest in shock. He's staring back at Definitely Not Human, eyes wide and mouth gaping with more emotion than I've ever seen in him.

"Who are _you_?" I ask the stranger, going for the Ask First, Stab Later approach. But I sure as hell don't lower my knife or my guard; I may be left at home to attend school, but I've had as much training as everyone else in the family.

Now he deigns to look at me. "My name is Castiel," he says, at the same time as Dean exclaims, "Cas!" He actually stands up, albeit shakily, and walks toward this Castiel. Even his voice is stronger. "But, God, Cas, you're– are you–"

Castiel is still looking blankly at him, head tilted curiously. "Dean Winchester?"

"Yes, it's me!" A look of apprehension passes over Dean's face, and he pauses. "Ah no, Cas, are you a headcase again? No memory? Is that why you haven't answered my calls?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I answered your prayer when I heard it, subjectively. It was exceptionally strongly directed, and to be heard through time. Why did you call?"

Dean stares at him, taking him in a second time. "Oh God," he murmurs, aghast. "No. That's not even fair. And that's coming from me."

"Dean?" I ask hesitantly. I guess he knows this Castiel, but I'm still not sure what the hell is going on. I _swear_ "Cas" never came up in any of those old stories.

Not that Dean's paying attention to me now. "You're so young," he breathes to the strange...man, for lack of further identification. I don't think they've broken eye contact since Castiel appeared.

"I have been alive for several millennia."

"Yeah, sure," says Dean, searching his face. "But you're–" He breaks off, and takes a shaky breath. "Cas, have you _met_ me?"

"Of course," replies Castiel matter-of-factly. "We are talking."

Dean sits on the end of the bed, face in his hands. "I remember when you used to be so literal."

"We have not formally met before this conversation," clarifies Castiel. "You were too badly damaged to remember the flight from Perdition." He peers back at Dean. "How is it that this timeline came to be? I don't–"

Dean is rubbing his left shoulder. "Cas...tiel. Could you, I dunno, go somewhere else for a minute? Don't do anything stupid. I just need a minute."

Castiel looks at him with concern, but disappears obligingly. I only flinch a bit.

Then I turn to Dean and demand, "What the hell is going on?"

"Gimme the whiskey back," he growls in reply.

I keep the half-empty glass as hostage and repeat the question with emphasis. "What the _hell_ is going on? Who was that?"

He swears under his breath, definitely sounding reinvigorated now. But the lines on his face look deeper than ever. "That was Castiel," he explains pseudo-patiently. "He's a nerdy angel who hasn't, apparently, met me yet, because time travel is a confusing bitch. Now would you give me the fucking weak-ass whiskey, Alex!"

He's not only really pissed but actually thinking in the right year for once, so I pass it over. He drains it in one gulp and hands the glass back. "Still crap."

I shrug, and get back to the matter at hand. "So you know this guy. Should I be prepared to...deal with anything?" By which I mean, shiv his ass back to wherever he came from?

Dean shakes his head violently, which, brings on more coughing. There isn't even anything we can get for it, these days; he's just old. He pounds himself on the back and chokes to a halt, wheezing. "No. Jeez, no." He gestures to my knife. "You can put that thing away."

Dubiously, I stick it back in the sheathe on my hip. "But how do you _know_ him?"

Oh god, now I've sent his mind careening backwards again, because he stares into space and says distantly, almost like he's quoting, "He's the one who gripped me tight and raised me from Perdition."

"Um, okay."

Dean shakes his head out of the past. "But that was a long time ago, in a, heh, galaxy far, far away." He smirks at the old reference, but it fades quickly. "And now he doesn't even know who I am. Not yet. God, how do I even– What do I _tell_ him–?"

As if on cue, there's the faintest sound of flapping wings and Castiel reappears in the middle of the room. "It has been one minute," he announces.

"_So_ damned literal," mutters Dean.

The angel addresses the old hunter directly. I think they've forgotten I'm in the room again. "Dean Winchester, what has happened to this timeline? Sufficient Seals have been broken, yet the Apocalypse appears not to have taken place. And I cannot contact any of my siblings. Is this why you called so loudly? You must tell me so that we can avert it."

"Yeah, um, that," says Dean. He looks like he's thinking fast. "Don't tell me what's going on. I mean, explain about the Seals, but don't harp on the whole 'destiny' thing. In fact, be sort of a dick about it. And, um, don't bug Sam about the demon blood thing, or tell me about that either. I forgive him." His face fell, and he looked old again, but he hastily added, "Not that you should tell him that. Like, ever."

Castiel eyes him suspiciously, like he knows Dean isn't saying everything he could, but he apparently understands the danger of revealing the future before it happens, because he just nods acceptingly.

Dean searches for some other advice to give, but I guess he gets distracted by Castiel's blue eyes, because he just stares at them. "Jesus, you really are a baby in a trench coat. All..._righteous_ and––" He breaks off, choking something back. "Cas, I– I'm sorry. For everything."

Castiel does the head-tilt thing again. "You believe anything is your fault?"

Dean actually sucks his breath in. "Yeah." He looks like he's wrestling with something. "Just, ah..." He gives up the fight. "Keep believing, all right, Cas? I've been doing some thinking in my age, and I've started to reconsider the idea of your dad being around."

It's clearly a big thing for him to say this, but Castiel just looks nonplussed. "Of course–"

Dean waves his hand. "Yeah, I've heard it before. Save it for, well, me, okay?"

"If you prefer." says Castiel. "I will return to then, now. I promise, God's plan _will_ proceed."

Dean nods, smiling thinly, and Castiel disappears. But only for about a millisecond, because Dean has already shouted, "Cas!"

"What is it?" asks the angel urgently.

Now Dean stands, not even shakily, grabs the angel's lapels and kisses him square on the lips.

Castiel takes half a step backwards, but not enough that his upper body does more than shiver. His hands sort of flail for a moment, then just hang limply, like he has no idea what to do with them. I'm not even looking anymore, because gross, gross, oh god _gross_. Old people shouldn't kiss. Not when they're parents, and certainly not when they're as old as _Dean_. Gross, gross, squeezing my eyes shut and erasing it forever from my memory; oh god, it won't go _away_, and it'd doesn't help that, however old he might be, Castiel's body sure as hell _looks_ like it's about 34...

After what seems like an eternity of eeyuck, but is probably about three seconds, Dean lets go of the angel and steps back. He has the weirdest grin on his wrinkly face, half regret, half lust (eeeeeeww) and all euphoria, and his eyes are so lit up I can see the green through the cataracts. "Damn, I should've done that thirty years ago."

Castiel and I stare at him in, I'm pretty sure, equal astonishment. He just shakes his head and says, "Eh, I'm too old now for anything else." Backing this up, he rubs his chest and coughs, though it's perhaps more embarrassment at the sudden awkwardness than a genuine lung-splitter. Still doesn't take his eyes off the angel, though. He sighs. "I guess you should go now, then." Castiel nods, still dumbstruck, and Dean _smacks the angel's ass_ and adds, "Try not to land on the roof this time, huh?"

Honest to god, I think I black out for a moment. Thankfully. There's a flurry of wingbeats, and Castiel disappears again, for good.

Into the _incredibly_ awkward silence that follows, I say the first thing that pops into my head: "Hey, we didn't change the past so much that we popped out of existence." I'm sort of relieved, not that I'd really been expecting it. Much.

Dean sits back on the bed. "That's because I'm a stubborn sonofabitch." He's still grinning, way too satisfied with himself. "Now I know why he turned up looking like a confused tribble." He glances over at me. "Hey, grab another drink, would you? Just bring the whole bottle. I'll share."

"Okay," I agree, because anything to get out of this room now. Still eeeeeeww. I even take the time to rinse and dry the used glass.

But when I get back to the bedroom, Dean doesn't look nearly so good. He's still sitting, but it's really slouched, and his face is almost as pale as his mostly-non-existent hair.

"Finally," he grumbles as I pass him the bottle. He sits up a little to take a swig, but I notice that he has to hold it with two hands to keep it steady.

"Dean, are you okay?" I ask worriedly, wondering if I should call the hospital or something. Suddenly, the brightness of his eyes reminds me less of excitement and more of a fever.

"Did you know," he says instead of answering the question," that I've been to every afterlife at least once?" He ticks them off on his fingers. "Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory, in that order. Valhalla, after that thing with the hammer. The Jain bridge. Olympus, which is actually in New York." He takes another sip, contemplative. "Probably loads more, if I could just remember them."

"Perdition?" I suggest.

He shakes his head. "Nah, that's just Cas-speak for Hell. Geek." He leans back until he's only half sitting, shoulders resting on the headboard.

"He pulled you out of Hell?" I ask, momentarily distracted. I never hear any of the good stuff. "He didn't look nearly..."

Dean smiles reminiscently. "Badass enough? Yeah, that's my nerdy angel." His expression turns wistful. "But that wasn't my Cas, not really. He came when I called, like he always does, but – it's like when you see a picture of someone you know, you know, but taken years before you knew them? It's not quite...right. Now my Cas, I've seen the King of Hell himself run from him. Twice, at least. We fought damn near everything together."

"Wow," I say, because there's really nothing else to say.

One corner of his mouth ticks up, but he looks almost too tired to grin. "Yeah."

He presses his hand to his chest again, and I repeat my question, "You seriously okay?"

"Nah," he replies casually. "Think he finally gave me that heart attack."

"What!" I spring up and replace his hand with mine. His heart is beating about three times as fast as it should. "Jesus, Dean, I'm calling the hospital."

"Don't," he ordered, grabbing my arm. "Don't go, Sammy. I'll be up in a minute."

Oh god, he thinks I'm his little brother again. "Dean, lemme just call–" I try to pull away, but he's got a steely, arthritis-locked death-grip on my wrist.

"It's okay, you're right. This life sucks. I didn't tell you before. Go to Stanford. I'll be right here." His voice is fading now, and his eyes are closed.

"Dean!" I shout, panicking. "Don't–" But what am I supposed to tell him not to do? Why is this happening when no one else is home?

He's giving that involuntary smile you get when you walk into the sunlight and it's just warm. "Hey, Cas, Sammy, Bobby" he whispers. "I got the beer." It's so quiet I have to lean down to hear. "Let's get this party started."

I'm still leaning down, but he's not talking anymore, and I realize there's no breath coming out at all. It was that fast.

"Jesus," I whisper to myself, pulling back from the bed. The death-grip on my wrist has slackened; Dean's other hand is still clutching the whiskey. Snow is falling outside, and the room is still heated enough to fall asleep. Nothing makes a noise. "Now what?"


End file.
